Jeeves and the Patience of a Saint
by LucylouKazoo
Summary: Jeeves endures a series of trials... Vacations, crowds, snow, mountaineers, tableauists, and an inconvenient absence of a respectable barber. His patience is legendary, but he is no saint, and one man can only endure so much. Wodehouse Slash.
1. Chapter 1

Jeeves and the Patience of a Saint

Chapter One

Over the many years I've spent in Mr. Wooster's employ, I have spent very little time parted from his company. There is, of course my annual two-week holiday to the coast of France, to fish aboard my cousin's sailboat; and occasionally, Mr. Wooster has been known to embark on tourism jaunts for a fortnight. But it was only recently that circumstances conspired to see us parted for an unusually long period.

These circumstances first announced themselves in the form of a telegram.

I was engaged in that year's fishing sojourn, which, while enjoyable, is always accompanied by a pall of worry; Mr Wooster is not to be left to himself for long. Thus I opened the missive with a sense of foreboding; I was not surprised by what I read.

I was informed that Mr. Wooster's was to accompany a group of his club-members to a ski lodge in the alps of Switzerland. The tone of the telegram was somewhat harried, as it seems his peers had pressed Mr. Wooster in to the journey against his wishes in order to aid them in their pursuit of the members of a neighboring ladies club.

Knowing, as I do, Mr. Wooster's aversion to the dangerous sport of downhill skiing, I began to grow concerned for his safety.

I bade my cousin a regretful farewell and returned home to London in the hopes that Mr. Wooster would soon escape the manipulations of his acquaintances with all limbs intact, but as weeks passed and he did not return, I realized that I would have to intervene.

Telegrams escalating in misery had filtered in daily from my morose employer. "_Jeeves-am beset by worst type of harridans-have lost all drones to fairer sex and horrifc downhill hurtling-please help!_"

Having been away from him for a full four weeks, I felt a growing discomfort and concern at his absence. With his very gratified approval by way of the telephone, I made arrangements to join him in the mountains straight away.

I soon found myself disembarking with the other passengers of a snowy steamer, having wound our way through the mountains to the station nearest Mr. Wooster's locale. The train was full of holiday death-defyers, toting their heavy wooden skis over lumbering Swedish shoulders, and I found myself at a loss to imagine Mr. Wooster among these nordic giants. He had insisted on meeting me at the station, and I took slow breaths of the icy air to calm myself at the prospect of seeing him after a long four weeks.

Little, however, could have prepared me for the arrival of my employer. He pushed eagerly through the crowd, a happy smile of greeting on his expressive features.

Since I entered his employ, I have meticulously structured Mr. Wooster's grooming regimen. I see to it that he meets with a barber of good reputation twice a month, and in the interim, I keep a sharp pair of barber's scissors on hand. His hair grows exceedingly quickly, and can become unruly if left too long.

But now, his hair -- untended this past month -- had grown beyond unruly. It had settled into a soft halo of golden curls, framing his face in a shockingly rustic manner. I was ashamed to find myself blushingly comparing his appearance -- hatless and tousled by the crowds and winds -- to Michelangelo's David, though, given the brisk weather, rather more clothed.

Naturally, this sort of lapse in grooming would need to be remedied at once. I'd see to an appointment at the first opportunity, once we had returned to London. But I will admit that the effect was not unbecoming, in the mountain setting, and away from London society.

"Jeeves!" he cried, as we shook hands warmly, "I've never been so glad to see anyone in my life!"

"I trust you're well, Sir? The mountain air seems to be invigorating."

"All this dratted air seems to be capable of is plunging my fellow man into dire circs with the ladies of Winthrop Lodge. I'd have chosen the sportive horrors of the slope over the silliness of the Winthrop events, but I rather fancy having legs which walk."

He was in good spirits, at least, and continued to describe the athletic efforts of the Drones club members, as we walked to the gondola shed. There, we were quickly ushered into the small car along with the other passengers and luggage. The Swiss gondola attendants were somewhat pressed for service, with the majority of the train passengers that required the use of the gondola, so our car was particularly crowded. It quickly filled with skiing enthusiasts and sight-seers, and Mr. Wooster and I became pressed into the rear of the enclosure.

As a large man bearing a large basket boarded the gondola, I felt brief panic. It occurred to me that I might plummet to my death in a state similar to that of a tinned sardine. Just then, Mr. Wooster was jostled by a pair of skis; he fell roughly against me, and my discomfiture was replaced by shock.

The crowd pressed in against us as the doors closed; there was no question of escape. Looking down, I could see his face flush, and the feel of his chest against my own nearly caused the same reaction in me.

"I say!" he remarked, attempting to put space between us, but the crowd stood in mute refusal. As he squirmed, his jacketed chest rubbed against me. I could feel the soft curls of his hair against my cheek.

Then he stilled, and watched me curiously from under lowered lashes for the duration of the ride. As for myself, I passed the time by cataloguing, from memory, Mr. Wooster's ties; when that proved too brief an occupation to occupy my concentration, I began mentally pairing the ties with his morning and evening outfits. I was aware of Mr. Wooster observing me, aware, of course, of his body pressed against my own; but I am satisfied that I gave no outward sign of discomfort.

The Drones Club ski lodge left a great deal to be desired, but the quarters were serviceable.

When we arrived, the club members were preparing for a snow-shoeing excursion, and Mr. Wooster was greeted with cheers and ordered to come along. He sent a panicked look in my direction as he the high-spirited young men ushered him towards the snowy mountainside.

I was relieved, however; after the uncomfortable gondola ride, it was refreshing to have some time to unpack Mr Wooster's and my things in contemplative solitude. After approximately one hour, I had regained my full composure, and banished all thoughts of our cramped gondola ride. Before I could quite finish unpacking, however, a heavy thud at the door caught my attention.

"I say, Jeeves!" called the familiar voice of Mr. Little through the oak door, "Jeeves, could you come out here and lend a hand?"

I opened the door to reveal a snow-covered Mr. Wooster, unconscious and without a coat, slumped on the doorstep of our quarters. Mr. Little stood nearby, grinning at my stony expression in a manner that managed to be both ineffectually apologetic and infuriating at once.

"He was right along with us, you see, when he must have lost his footing. Stumbled into a bit of a gorge, and that's when he must have lost his coat and boot in the tumble. You know how clumsy old Bertie is. It was a few moments before anyone had even realized where he'd gotten off to!"

He paused here to chuckle for a moment. When I failed to join him in his mirth, he continued.

"Took me an eon to drag him back here. You'll see to him, won't you old chap? I've got to be catching up with the fellows. We were on our way to visit the neighbors. A ladies' club, can you believe the luck? Well, I'm off then."

And with that, Mr. Little spun on his snowshoe (having worn them indoors and tracked in a considerable amount of now-melted snow) and clomped off toward the hills.

I stooped to examine Mr. Wooster, horrified at the chill of his skin, and quickly hefted his slight frame off the damp floor. Placing him on the bed, I saw that his grey lambswool sweater was soaked through to his shirt, and even his undershirt. His trousers were plastered to his legs with water and snow, and his extremities were bright red in color.

An examination of his head revealed no injury there, nor could I find one in the rest of his body. A simple faint, then, out of fear, no doubt.

I quickly placed more wood on the fire, removed his boots and wool socks, and chafed his feet and hands quickly between my palms. When they lost a little of their chill, I carefully peeled off his upper garments and was relieved when he began to shiver. He had been completely still upon his arrival, and it had worried me a great deal.

Fortifying myself, I undid the buckle of his drenched trousers, and removed them along with his undergarments. I replaced these with a dry pair from the armoire, as quickly as I could. Yet as I wrapped him in the quilt and blanket, my concern returned; he had not yet awakened. I hoisted him in my arms to lay him down on the hearth, telling myself that he would, if awake, excuse such a liberty.

Still, he shivered violently, and remained unconscious.

Although I am not a man to thrill to the lurid adventure novel, I have, in the interest of improving my general knowledge, perused accounts of scientific expeditions to the poles. Now I recalled reading in Dr. Fisher's Guide to the Antarctic Circle that the most efficient way to prevent hypothermic shock was to utilize another's body warmth.

Looking down upon Mr. Wooster, shivering on the hearth, I knew that I was facing a task that would certainly appear improper by every standard of my profession. Yet I was willing to cast that aside in order to help him.

I locked the door, and removed my tie with slightly shaking hands. I shrugged out of my jacket and shoes, and rolled the sleeves of my shirt to the elbow. This was the extent I was willing to bend; I hoped that it would be enough. I unravelled Mr. Wooster's blankets, and, with a shuddering sigh, wrapped them tightly around our bodies.

I have spent the better part of three years avoiding the type of situation I now found myself in; one that might strain the boundaries of professionalism between myself and my employer.

With trepidation, I wrapped my arms around his quaking shoulders. His skin was cool and soft beneath my touch, and I was gratified to sense the tension in his back lessen slightly at the feel of my warmth. I bent my legs, and found that his own were just the right length that I could warm his feet with mine. I grasped his hands in my own, as well; for a moment I was overwhelmed, and clenched my eyes shut against the back of his neck, as I felt how sweetly his body curved to my own.

Slowly, slowly, his breathing eased from the gasping, shaking pants with which he had begun. His face slackened from the pinch of cold, and I allowed myself the opportunity to closely watch him sleep. His hair, drying in soft curls, fell lightly over his brow, curving in tandem with his long eyelashes, and the delicate bow of his upper lip. It was too much; I could not look again, and removed my gaze to the fire as it danced in the grate. So I remained, tense and shaken, folded against my employer's body, until he began to stretch and rouse himself.

The first stretch lengthened his torso, pushing his chest out against my hands, and his lower back against my midsection. I stifled a gasp, and began to slowly disentangle myself as I felt the stirrings of arousal reinstate themselves for the fifteenth time that hour.

It was clearly a physical reflex; but it would not do at all, to have him waken to find me pressed intimately to him, in a state of ardor. I arranged myself a few handspans apart from him, sucking in a shuddering breath when he attempted to inch back towards my warmth.

"Jeeves!" he murmured, disoriented. His eyes darted around the room. "I survived! I thought I'd have been buried in the depths of the freezing tundra by now!" he smiled faintly, and tried to wiggle further into his warm bedding.

"Mr. Little explained that you had taken a fall from the trail. I'm relieved to see you awake, Sir. How do you feel?"

"Mmm... Warm. Thank you, Jeeves." His voice was rough from sleep and the cold.

"I'm gratified that you are out of danger, Sir. May I prepare your nightclothes? I am informed that a brush with hypothermia is extremely exhausting. I could have the cook prepare some hot tea and soup to eat in your room, if you wish." I rose and began to lay our Mr. Wooster's pajamas while his eyes followed me around the room.

"Yes. Thank you, Jeeves," and there was true gratitude and very real fatigue that slurred his words.

Mr. Wooster fell back into sleep with his soup spoon halfway to his mouth, and had I not been there to catch it, he might have ruined the sheets.

Lying in bed the following hour, as I prepared for my own slumber, I could feel the phantom shape of my employer, pressed against me.

I closed my eyes, and told myself, firmly, that while today might have been trying, tomorrow things would have returned to normal.

And with that incorrect proclamation, I slept.


	2. Chapter 2

Jeeves and the Patience of a Saint

Chapter Two

The Catamount Ladies Orienteering Club was the sort of rustic locale that allowed for well-bred young ladies to feel closer to the natural world, while simultaneously enjoying a working staff of twenty-four.

The lodge where the Drones Club had made their temporary home, was sparse and tended only by an aged housekeeper, who despaired of their dinner-roll cricket.

Conveniently, this gave the members of Mr. Wooster's club just cause to spend most of their time visiting with the Catamount Ladies. It could always be argued that they were visiting out of a craving to utilize the Catamount billiards table.

I had, at first, been hoping to direct my employer home to London immediately, but the ice storms had come in the night, and thoroughly frozen the gondola apparatus, making it impossible for anyone to come or go from the icy mountaintop. At the least, I'd endeavored to avoid the ladies' club for the duration of my stay, but it seemed that the lodge housekeeper was not fit to prepare anything close to edible, and as a result, the Drones members had begun taking their meals at the Catamout Lodge.

So it was that Mr. Wooster and his friends were braving the pink tablecloth over a breakfast of tiny scones. The women of the Catamount Club were, as I had suspected, the vicious and determined type, that would choose to remove themselves to the wilderness in the hopes that it would improve their social standing. Each of them seemed to have claimed a Drones member for their personal entertainment, and it was amusing to watch Mr. Wooster's more conniving acquaintances, following closely at the heels of these outspoken young women.

Miraculously, Mr. Wooster had managed to avoid becoming an amusing romantic diversion to a Catamount lady. He accomplished this, he had confided during our uncomfortable, snow-shoed treck to the Catamount Lodge, by allowing them to think him quite dim, indeed, by grunting into his meals and stumbling over doorsteps.

"I suppose that I quite often don't know what on earth one of these feminine dreadnaughts are discussing, anyway! I just enhanced my general confusion, and it seems to do the trick."

I allowed a small smile to curl my mouth. It was heartening to see that Mr. Wooster had been aware of the potential for what he would term "a sticky situation," amongst the Catamount Ladies, and had endeavored to protect himself in lieu of my aid.

Unfortunately, his temporary asylum ended abruptly, just as he completed his breakfast. An imposing hellenic sort of young woman, clad in an alarming combination of sporting jacket and pleated luncheon skirt, stood at the head of the table and clapped her hands for attention.

"As you Catamounts might know," she announced, as the sounds of breakfasting died down, "today is the day we will be receiving the esteemed Mr. Jeffries, the famed tableauist, to our humble mountain cottage!" There were a great many soprano exclamations, as the ladies delighted in the news. Mr. Wooster turned bewildered eyes to mine but before I could lean down to inform him of the situation, the sport jacket continued.

"Mr. Jeffries will be using club members in his tableaus, so ladies, please do volunteer as models. Gentlemen, I am certain that Mr. Jeffries will be delighted at having one or two noble heros and rugged rescuers at his disposal. Last year we were quite without anyone to play the male roles... Not that you didn't do a marvelous job, Milly," she apologized in a saccharine tone, to a lady on her right who resembled a hirsute steam engine. The Drones members had all taken on familiar expressions of bewilderment, and turned their heads nervously towards one another, like trapped animals. I leaned down, in the confusion, to attempt to soothe Mr. Wooster's confusion.

"Sir, Mr. Jeffries would appear to be a director of staged presentations-- Tableau Vivant. It is an activity that involves elements of fine art, the stage, and often a considerable quantity of alcohol. Models are directed to dress and pose in a specific fashion, often in imitation of notable classic paintings."

"Ah! Of course, Jeeves. Aunt Agatha was fond of that sort of thing, in her younger days. When I was a boy, I seem to recall being chased through the garden by a madwoman bearing a pair of cherub wings. The harridan got them on me, too, after nearly mauling me to pieces."

I paused for a moment to imagine Mr. Wooster as a small, tousled child, strapped unwillingly into feathery wings, and the corner of my mouth threatened to curl in a smile. I banished the thought.

"It was nonsense then, and I assure you it will be nonsense now, Jeeves. I will be off like a shot at the first sight of a wire halo, I can promise you that. Where lies the exit?"

I directed Mr. Wooster ahead of me to a door, as the breakfast table disbanded and the crowds had begun milling through the dining room. The Drones seemed unaware of their part in the afternoon's event, but immersed among the Catamount ladies as they were, it would be imprudent to warn them at present. Mr. Wooster seemed to agree with a look, and we made out way towards the door and a safe escape from an afternoon of costumed humiliation.

Only for the doors to be flung wide as we neared them, parting to allow entry to an enormous wild animal, that I could only assume was a bear.

I'd already begun to step in front of Mr. Wooster to shield him from the beast's attack, when I made out the small face of a man, within the fur.

"Ladies!" cried the animal man, "I have arrived, and brought you the beauty of the ageless arts!" He flung his furred arms wide, as if to embrace the room, and grinned beneath his hat.

I have been galled by the apparel of many I have had the misfortune to meet, in my days, but never have I beheld such a strange adornment as this man and his furred coat with matching hat. He appeared as nothing more than a misshapen pile of brown hair-- a creature entirely enclosed within a foreign skin. That selfsame skin he then shucked into the waiting arms of an assistant, revealing a garish pinstripe, and a pointed, pouted face, framed by bootpolished black hair.

"Mr. Jeffries!" exclaimed the sport coat, rushing to bestow a european greeting on his pointed face. "We're so pleased you're here at last! What fun we're going to have!"

"Of course, Olivia, my petal. I've the most splendid selection for us, this year. You're all going to be damask goddesses! Lilies of the valley!" He paused, to take in the room, and it's stunned male inhabitants. With a gasp, he flung his arms wide. "Is it true I'll have the use of some gods, this year?"

There was a distinctly uncomfortable pause, as many a Drone considered possible routs of escape.

In the hallway, a small convoy of assistants were transferring racks of costumes into the drawing room and library. The volume of Mr. Jeffries' assortment was intimidating, and I wondered, for a moment, how he had managed to have it all brought up the mountain. At present, the mayhem of costume arrangements were blocking any escape attempt. Mr. Wooster looked at me with panic in his eyes, but we were effectively trapped.

There was another astonished gasp from Mr. Jeffries, and I turned, startled, to see that he was examining my employer with an openly lascivious gaze.

"You! You, my lotus blossom!" For a moment, the lady to Mr. Wooster's left fluttered her hand at her cheek at the flattery, until Mr. Jeffries bustled past her to clap a hand familiarly on Mr. Wooster's shoulder. "I have just the masterpiece for you! I've been yearning for the right model for some time now-- You shall be my most breathtaking opus!"

"Well!" said my flustered employer, feeling at the gap in his collar. "...Well!"

"I shall swathe you in the finest linens, my pet, and your visage will shine through the ages--immortalized in silver tones!"

"It sounds like an awful lot of trouble-- He isn't even a club member!" this from the flushed lady to Mr. Wooster's left.

"Madam," replied Mr. Jeffries, as he pulled his protesting quarry into the hallway, "Do be patient. There are plenty of roles for goddesses of bounty... Alfred!"

With Mr. Wooster still in tow, he clapped his hands to summon an assistant, who scurried to his side with revealing haste.

"See that these ladies receive their costumes and instructions. I'll begin their shoot this afternoon. Please prepare the drawing room for a special session, immediately."

And with a "yes sir," the assistant went to work, organizing the dining room occupants into categories.

I made to follow Mr. Jeffries, who was still pulling my dazed employer towards the drawing room. But they suddenly halted.

"You! Who are you?" he inquired, imperiously.

"I am Jeeves, Sir, Mr. Wooster's personal gentleman. It would be my pleasure and duty to assist in his costuming."

"Who's?"

"The, ahem, _lotus blossom_ whose lapel you have thoroughly crushed in your grip."

"Oh!" said Mr. Jeffries, smoothing his hand lovingly along the aforementioned lapel. "No, no, my good man. I am an artist, and my models are dressed to my own specifications. You'd simply be in the way, I'm afraid."

"Jeeves!" whispered Mr. Wooster, in desperate tones.

"Mr. Jeffries, I am certain that I could be of assistance. If you would allow me to accompany Mr. Wooster, I could--"

"He's in very good hands," he interrupted, "I must insist that you allow me my artistic freedom. I'm sure that Alfred can find you some way to be of assistance..." He looked me up and down, peering closer than I would have liked, before waving a limp hand in my direction, "Dismissed."

I would have persisted, despite his imperious behavior, but at that moment, a bevy of assistants began to usher me out of their way. I stepped back to let pass an enormous rack of costumes, and by the time the last glittering silken robe had fluttered by, Mr. Wooster had been dragged into the drawing room, and locked inside.


	3. Chapter 3

Jeeves and the Patience of a Saint

Chapter Three

Three hours passed of failed attempts to come to Mr. Wooster's aid, and I was currently occupied in the dining hall, assisting the bewildered Drones members with costuming.

The gentlemen wandered through the hall in clothing half antiquated and half their own, as if awaiting their call to the gallows. Each of them was more garishly attired, in enormous swathes of linen or leather, depending on the painting for which they had been chosen. Every thirty minutes or so, a group of them would be freed back into the hall from the photography shoot in the ballroom, to shed the costumes and flee to the relative safety of their own lodge. Each returning gentleman was flustered and irritated, having been posed and prodded into unnatural positions and instructed to hold still for what seemed like an eternity.

I worried for the state of my employer. Mr. Wooster was not accustomed to providing such a performance on order, and I feared he was trapped in some horrendous renaissance portrait reenactment, by the odious Mr. Jeffries.

A young man passed, bearing an armload of what appeared to be a painted backdrop. He looked harried, and had clearly been rushed through the day's activities. He looked worriedly at the row of doors down the hallway, and shifted from foot to foot. I made my presence known by a slight cough. He turned towards me, and I made my voice as soothing as possible.

"Are you looking for the room where Mr. Jeffries working?"

"I was just there! I don't remember which one it is, and one of these is where the ladies are changing!"

"A predicament, indeed. Perhaps you could entrust the delivery to me? I'd be happy to locate Mr. Jeffries on your behalf. You're much too busy to be wasting your minutes on such a small task..."

"I'm not certain-- Mr. Jeffries is very particular about being interrupted..." The boy was clearly tempted by my offer. I pressed my point while he wavered.

"I'm quite sure he will not mind. I was appointed to assist in his shoot."

"Well, in that case!" said the boy, relief spreading over his face. He deposited the pile of fabric into my arms, and was fleeing down the hall in moments.

Prepared thusly, I returned to the drawing room door, where I knocked softly.

"Is that my backdrop!? What's taken so long!?" came the muffled voice from inside, "Come in, come in!"

Feeling very satisfied in my victory, I pushed the door open.

In that moment, when my hands went numb and the cloth dropped from my hands, I dimly recall that Mr. Jeffries began to berate my interruption. He had no sooner opened his mouth, though, before I was forcibly removing him from the room.

"Out," I declared, planting him outside the door. Something in my voice, low and insistent as an oncoming train, must have stilled his arguments, because he said nothing further when I slammed and locked the door. It was very unlike my usual behavior, but then, I have never before been at such odds against my own strength of will.

With Mr. Jeffries safely huffing away outside the room, I turned, and with my back against the door, drew a deep, shuddering breath at the sight that had first greeted me when I had entered.

Mr. Jeffries was, indeed, an artist of the tableax vivant. He had arranged Mr. Wooster splayed over a table, among cloths that draped against his form, caressing the sides of his body. The lighting was perfect, with dark curtains sheilding the room from light to create the immediately recognizable beax-arts, high-contrast style of 16th century painter, Marcantonio Bassetti.

Mr. Wooster, apparently asleep, reclined with an arm stretched over his head, and his long legs bent at the knee. The cloth wound around one leg, and it can be noted that he wore nothing but the material that draped around him and over the table. The soft candlelight threw the musculature of his torso into sharp relief, and emphasized the beauty of his face in sleep.

I have never before been so simultaneously moved and astonished by a single image.

As I stood in utter awe, trembling against the doorframe, Mr. Wooster stirred, slightly, and, blinking, arched his neck to look at me over his shoulder.

"Jeeves!" he pronounced, delighted. " Don't I look saintly?"

Mr. Jeffries had duplicated a painting of St. Sebastian, casting Mr. Wooster as the beautiful central figure, and shocking me to the core. The weeks we'd been apart, my sudden fondness for Mr. Wooster's unruly curls, the carefully proper warming of his body after his fall-- I had reached the ends of my limits in these circumstances. The emotions swept through me in an intoxicating rush, and I found myself slowly advancing on my recumbent employer.

The painting had long been a favorite of mine. Many men of my persuasion often found themselves drawn to St. Sebastian, painted as he was martyred, impaled by arrows and stretched sensuously to display his pale, masculine beauty. It was no wonder Mr. Jeffries had picked Mr. Wooster to play this part; with Mr. Wooster's slim, attractive frame, and the corona of golden curls, I must have been blind, myself, not to notice the resemblance.

But Mr. Wooster was no untouchable saint-- he was my cheerful, affectionate employer, for whom my fondness had become deeper, even, than I had fully been aware.

At present, his eyes were wide and questioning in the candlelight, as he peered over the top of his shoulder at me, advancing towards him with no clear motive. When I reached his side, I slowed to a stop, and my hand, trembling, extended to touch the faux arrow that was affixed beneath his ribcage. Mr. Wooster must have seen something in my face, because he did not press me with questions.

My hand smoothed down the feather quill, and down the shaft of the arrow, where I grasped it at the base to loosen the adhesive, and pull it carefully from his skin. The arrow pulled free cleanly, the spirit gum unsticking easily from his smooth skin.

There was a shuddering gasp from Mr. Wooster, and I watched his face as I discarded the arrow, and moved to the next one, affixed to his chest. Something about pulling the arrows free of his body, revealing the unmarred skin beneath, was at once sensual and deeply fulfilling, as if I was pulling the arrows from the martyred saint, himself. The act was akin to healing his wounds. I became dizzy with the combined acts of healing and touching my employer and the saint, at once.

I was unsure why this circumstance had resulted in the final crumbling of my barricade against my feelings for Mr. Wooster. Perhaps his role as the objectified saint had placed him, finally, within my reach. Perhaps it was simply the combination of Mr. Wooster's candlelit dishabille and my innate need to heal the metaphorical wounds he suffers.

Mr. Wooster's chest rose and fell rapidly. His wide eyes were unusually dark, and flicking over my hands as they hovered over his chest. I was calmed by the notion that he, too, was effected by the present exchange. I met his eyes as I pulled the last arrow from his body, and he lay before me unimpaled and panting. I have never seen a more arousing sight. Lifting my hands over his smooth skin, I stroked over the places from where I had pulled the arrows. My hands passed carefully down his torso, my fingers following the dips and curves that were so beautifully accented by the candle's shadow.

Unable to stop myself, as if in a dream, I bent at the waist, and followed these curves with my lips, my eyes finally lowering from his own to flutter nearly closed, so I could watch his smooth skin pass so close below me.

Mr. Wooster's gasps and the arch of his back would have broken my facade, if I hadn't already fallen deeply from my constant state of staunch propriety. I was dizzy with the scent of his skin; clean and sharp, with the underlying, subtle musk of his sweat. Suddenly overwhelmed, I groaned against his skin. My hands had found their way to his hips, and I felt his answering undulation.

"Jeeves," he choked, uttering the first word since my composure had broken.

My name, so familiar from his lips, was startlingly affecting in it's ragged, passionate tone. I dragged my lips up over his stomach as I tipped my head to look up the length of his body to his flushed face. He'd raised his head to peer at me over his panting chest, and as we regarded each other in passion and surprise, he smiled tremulously and raised a quavering hand to run his fingers lightly over my hair. As his warm hand passed over my ear, my eyes fell shut, blocking out the overwhelming sight of him and his adoring eyes, and I shuddered against him with a gasp. His thumb rubbed along my jawline, and I let my head drop back down to his warm skin.

This was not an abstracted saint, but the familiar flesh of my employer, which I had so long forced myself to ignore. My transgression was unforgivable, but his skin against my cheek was hot and soft, and I could not help but nuzzle against him. Through the precarious sheet that wound around his pelvis, his arousal pressed against my chest.

It seemed impossible that he should have responded to my sudden advances. I felt lightheaded with the improbability of our current situation. It vaguely occurred to me that I was amorously sprawled across my employer's supine form, as he was laid out upon a drawing room table in an ladies' mountaineering club. But his voice uttering my name in passion seemed to erase my reservations.

"Sir?" I inquired in a low voice against his skin. I watched his face bloom with a wide smile and hectic color. I could not help but return his smile with an answering fond expression. My weight shifted, and I rolled onto my knee, placed between his sprawling, shapely legs. My other knee followed, brushing against his side, and I began to draw my nose along the curves of his stomach and over his chest. My mouth reached his alluring neck, and I brushed my lips along his collarbone and up the sinews of his neck to his ear. My weight came to settle against him, and he gasped in pleasure as our hips fitted together.

As I tasted the skin of his neck beneath his ear, his chest vibrated against my own as he gave a tentative, shuddering groan. I felt his feet slide up my calves, and his legs wrap around my own, and couldn't help but thrust against him.

"That's... That's lovely!" he exclaimed, and his head fell back with eyes shut in passion. His hands slid under the lapels of my open jacket, and over my lower back. As I grazed my teeth over his neck, his hands fisted in my shirt suddenly, inadvertently pulling my shirt-tails from my waistline. His hips were undulating subtly against me, seemingly of their own accord. My own excitement had advanced so swiftly to such a fevered state, that the slight movement was nearly enough to send me into completion. I lifted my head, noting that my breath was coming in soft pants that ruffled his hair slightly.

My eyes fell to his lips, which emitted a soft whimper, and I tilted my chin just enough so that my mouth could feel the heat of his breath, which seemed to stop in his chest as my lips drew nearer to his own.

I trembled over him in my hesitation to transgress the final taboo. I had, with secretive fervency, often contemplated his kiss nearly from the onset of our association. This moment, when I held myself on the brink of my final liberty, my hesitancy at the abandonment of feudal propriety asserted itself subtly, freezing my lips centimeters from his. His eyes darted over my face, pleading, and his whisper brushed our mouths into contact.

"P...please...Kiss me, Jeeves."

It was a irresistible request. My lips landed hard against his, and his arms and legs clutched at me convulsively. My hips were pressed tightly against his. His mouth was so soft and damp, the pleasure was dizzying. His lips parted in a gasp, and searched my own, nipping at my bottom lip. When he bit down softly, I realized that his thrusts had intensified, and, whimpering, he was reaching his ecstasy against me.

My chest swelled as I breathed in, marveling at his beauty, and at the thought that I had taken part in causing him this pleasure. His eyes opened slowly, dark and sated, and met my own. He has never been adept at concealing his emotion, and it was easy to read his feelings across his open expression. I was struck with the thought that I had noticed this expression before, but barred my mind from reading the meaning behind it. Now I could soak in the fondness in his eyes, and let my own show upon my face.

When he lazily slipped his tongue into my mouth, I found myself nearing the apex of my own pleasure. To taste his mouth was intoxicating. His hands had wormed their way under my shirt to brush the skin of my lower-back, and as our kiss intensified, he raked his nails tentatively up my back. I shattered in his arms. My back arched and I ground my hips against him as I was gripped with passion, deeper and harder than I can ever recall. I cried out softly, exclaiming into his lips, and bucked against him, clutching his head with my fingers speared into his curling hair.

When my wits returned, I was panting against his smiling mouth. I rested my forehead against his, while he peered blearily up at me with an expression of slow, astonished happiness. His hands smoothed up and down my back, and I shuddered as his fingertips momentarily brushed into the gap in my waistband.

Miraculously, and despite slowly returning to myself, I found myself smiling down into his face. My body felt heavy and languid, cradled by his limbs. My issue, cooling in my undershorts, wasn't even uncomfortable enough to compel me to move from his embrace.

But the peaceful silence, broken only by the sound of his hands smoothing down my back, and our soft breathing, gave way to the sound of persistent thudding against the door.

I gathered myself as swiftly as I was able, and pushed carefully off my employer's body. The cold against my perspiration-dampened clothing was jarringly unpleasant. He was staring at the door, a panicked look in his eyes, but he continued to lie sprawled enticingly among the sheets, spread like a pinned butterfly. I took a moment to linger over his form, before swiftly righting my clothing and hair. There was nothing to be done, for the moment, for the state of my underthings, but my dark suit would conceal the evidence of my pleasure. With that thought, I turned to Mr. Wooster, who had managed to lean up on his elbows, and was examining his own state of dishabille with worry.

"Jeeves!" he turned to me, pulling at the wetted sheet, "Help!"

I quickly smoothed the wound fabric over him, cleaning his skin of his issue, and tossed the rolled sheet behind a bookcase. It wasn't the most efficacious method of disposal, but it took care of the immediate evidence. It also bared him from the waist down. I felt myself blush when he noticed my regard, and his cock twitched against his leg at my fervent stare.

I carefully arranged one of the other sheets over his hips, hiding the temptation, and preserving his modesty just in time for the study door to burst open. Mr. Wooster met my eyes with panic as Mr. Jeffries and a small entourage of assistants barreled through the doorway, having broken the lock beyond repair.

I placed the back of my hand against Mr. Wooster's forehead, returning his confused gaze, significantly. After a moment of deep thought, he understood my implication, and flopped onto his back, moaning as if violently ill.

"What is this! How dare you, you impertinent philistine, to disrupt my art!" Mr. Jeffries was highly agitated, gesticulating wildly.

"My employer suffers a nervous condition. If he is without his medicine for more than two hours, he is prone to a relapse. Your photographic session extended beyond the time in which he was to receive his medication, and he has subsequently taken quite ill."

Mr. Jeffries sputtered indignantly. There was something in his gaze that clearly indicated that he was more aware of the truth of the situation than he felt comfortable letting be known.

"I've administered his injection, but he is still in grave peril. Now, I must dress my employer and rush him to his sickroom. If you will excuse me..." I indicated with my eyebrows that the crowd should vacate the room. Mr. Jeffries looked daggers at me, but I was certain that, in his final look before he turned to depart, I perceived the acknowledgment of defeat in a jealous admirer.

Mr. Wooster had been playing his act to the rafters, moaning and rolling his head beneath the back of his hand. At Mr. Jeffries' departure, he stilled and silenced his act, and turned to grin mischievously at me; his co-conspirator and rescuer.

I gathered up his clothing and assisted him in dressing. He whistled cheerfully and rocked on his heels as I fixed his tie and adjusted his lapels. He radiated delight, and I found myself unable to resist it's infectiousness, even if my own outward display was far subtler.

When he was presentable, he caught my hands as I ran my fingers along his collar for the second time, and held them in his own. He rubbed his thumbs along my knuckles, and I squeezed his fingers slightly in reassurance, meeting his worried gaze and soothing it. With that, he gathered his acting skills and went limp against me. I half-carried him from the room, supporting his languid form through the crowd of oddly-attired goddesses and greek princes.

His lolling head was supported by my shoulder, and his soft hair caressed the side of my neck. His proximity lapped against my senses as we walked, and I could feel his smile against my skin. His weight seemed insubstantial, and his body was warm against my side.

Over the next hour, I would pack our things while he hummed a tune and watched me surreptitiously from over the top of his novel. We would be shuttled by the aging housekeeper to the gondola departure point. Our tickets would be purchased and our return to London imminent.

On the ride down, suspended above the mountainside in our small gondola, we stood against the wall among the other riders. Their numbers had certainly diminished from our former ride, but there was still a crowd large enough that the space was close.

I felt his eyes on me, and turned to regard him, tipping my head so that my gaze was hidden from others by the brim of my hat. His eyes were wide and affectionate, and with a stifled smile, he directed his sight to the window and the mountainous view around us. His gaze thus innocently trained on the landscape, I felt the brush of his hand against my own, hidden below the sightlines of the crowd of other riders in the gondola.

I turned my head downwards, as if staring towards my feet in thought, but kept my eyes trained to the side, on his face, beaming with joy, but carefully staring straight ahead and anywhere other than towards me. His fingers curled around my hand, brushing over my skin in a warm caress, before releasing me. He did not move his hand away, though, rather allowing it to hang near my own, the backs of our knuckles and fingers brushing against each other's with the movement of the gondola, as if by chance. The warm touch was electrifying, causing my heart to beat quickly, and my fingers to tremble against his at every touch.

Peering at him out of the side of my gaze, my face hidden from outside view by the brim of my hat, I watched his eyes dart to meet mine momentarily, before returning to the landscape, his expression seeming satisfied by what he had read in my look.

With a deep breath, and a feeling of breathtaking contentedness, I joined him in a perusal of the mountains and sky, sharing the sight of the snow-covered Swiss Alps, as I had often shared other views at his side. But this time, I felt the casual touch of his hand against my own, and knew that though we each stared out at the beautiful landscape around us, our minds were elsewhere, and inward. His blue, clear gaze was far off, but I knew his thoughts were with me.

And with the knowledge of that truth, I could only smile.

Author's note: This one took a while. I hope you all enjoyed!


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